31 seconds in Hell
by RoweenaC
Summary: My thoughts about the last scene.... I know it has been done a lot lately. Just have to get it out. Clogging up my brain... Haunting me.


Greenish light,  
chains rattling,  
twinging with a metallic whir.  
Hooks stabbing at his  
shoulder,  
leg and  
side.

Jarring and  
resonating in his head.  
Sweat beading his whole body,  
mixing with blood,  
diluting it,  
turning it even saltier,  
like the Dead Sea.

Stinging painfully in  
the multiple scratches,  
scars and  
gashes torn by  
the hellhound's claws and teeth.

Curled long lashes  
soaked by more salty liquid.  
Unknowing,  
uncaring  
whether it was tears,  
blood  
or sweat,  
clogging them.

Flashes running  
through him,  
around him,  
lightning strikes constantly  
coursing through every  
muscle,  
sinew,  
bone and  
nerve,  
making them twitch,  
overexpanding his already  
agonisingly stretched form.

Like a fly in a spider's web.

Suspended in space,  
no point of orientation:  
no up,  
no down,  
no left,  
no right,  
no sun,  
no moon.

No Sam.

Alone.  
Devoid of presence.  
Emptiness filled up by pain,  
cruelty and tears only to feel  
even more vacant.

Lashing out at his heart.  
Tearing his soul in two.  
Soulless thunder rumbling  
around him,  
above him,  
in him,  
heart bursting in panic,  
he screams.

For the first time in his existence,  
he fears,  
unable to turn away,  
push away.

Unable to free himself,  
to fight.

When there is no orientation,  
there is no running away  
or from  
or to.

To Sam.

"Somebody help me!"

Forcing himself to fight,  
to be liberated,  
to accept help at last,  
he wriggles.

Renewing the unbearable torment in  
his still all too tangible body.

Hissing air into his lungs;  
foul,  
fetid,  
sulfurous air;  
he casts his eyes around wildly.

Praying for a glimpse of hope,  
a twinkle of good,  
a hint of salvation  
but his eyes and his soul are met with  
a void,  
of pain and  
despair.

No Sam.  
No orientation.  
No purpose.  
No hope.  
No... love.

Nothing.

Hell.

His ears pick up a low hum,  
nerve wracking,  
reverberating in his  
skull and  
collarbones.

He turns his head to find the source  
but endless,  
eternal nothingness  
answers his plea for reason.

Only chains,  
lightning,  
torture,  
green phosphorescence,  
blood,  
exhaustion,  
solitude and  
irredeemability  
share and define his existence.

Companions in his torment.

His demons.

Welcoming them is like welcoming defeat.  
And he struggles against their crooning,  
their offer to yield and be saved.

False promises.

They are his companions, too.  
He had made them.  
Been subjected to them.  
Detested them.  
Denied them.

Only one way to hell and it is plastered  
with good intentions, with promises not kept.  
Leaving behind a stale after-taste of  
final ineptitude,  
discomfiture.

Anger rises like bile.  
Rage at himself.  
Consuming wrath at his choices in life  
finally bringing him here.

What was he supposed to have done differently?

No alternatives,  
never an easy way,  
always the hard and stony road  
leading to hell.

The companions sniggering and mocking him.

_Always a choice, buddy._

Their laughter eats at his heart and soul,  
gnawing away his reasons and intentions,  
leaving behind raw and bloody  
despair and uncertainty.

Had he done wrong?

NO!

_NO? _

_Where was the gain in all this?_

People had been saved.  
Sam had been saved.

"SAM!"

He yells using up his diminishing supply of  
air in his lungs, leaving them burning for oxygen.  
Fights against nausea as he inhales  
the putrid excuse for fresh air  
flooding his bronchia.  
Sweat streams down  
his tensed muscles in torrents,  
washing away dried blood.  
He welcomes the cleansing effect.

Cringing at the stinging sensation  
it sends through his body,  
when sweat surges against wounds;  
like a huge tidal wave against crumbling cliffs.  
Feeding off the anger he raises his head.  
The hook in his shoulder  
contributing to a near deafening cry of agony.

It had to be done this way.

Had to be!

_Had to be? _

His demons roaring with laughter.

_Says who? _

_Dad? _

_Sam? _

_You? _

_Why? _

_Why do you have to suffer for them? _

_Where is the purpose in that? _

Shut up you filthy, foul, fucking bitches!

Mustering all his power he sneers at them.  
His mind races, taking in his own predicament  
but turning it, molding it into a weapon.

Determination.  
Will.  
Purpose.

There is a way out!

There always is!

_Yeah? _

_You been to hell before, Dean? _

Mocking him, the voices echo around him,  
converging with the frequent pulse of lightning and  
resonating excruciatingly inside his head.

My whole life has been hell, you freakin ass holes!

I excel at living in hell.

Have enough experience to get myself out

of this stinking pot hole and take others with me!

Defiance flares up inside him  
but it is a flash in the pan  
as memories reel behind his  
pale, weary eyes.

His mother dying in flames.  
Sam's lifeless body in his arms,  
his father's body nourishing  
the flames on the pyre.

Waves of loss and grief encompass him,  
tear at him threatening  
to wash him away with them;

to carry him to the open sea  
and drown him in the deep,  
dark ocean of despair.

His walls finally crumbling down,  
he gasps;  
terrified at the impact and  
tries to resist  
its tempting offer of oblivion,  
soothing his wounded soul.  
He swims against the current,  
stiffens physically and  
is rewarded with a  
jarring surge of agony  
clawing at his flesh and bones.

Despair overwhelms him,  
tears him away.

There is no way out of here.

Never was.

I am so sorry Sam.

I can't do this.

Sorry that I left you.

Alone.

Unprotected.

In danger.

Working slowly,  
like climbing up a steep,  
stone stairwell;  
exhausted and panting heavily,  
he fights against imminent defeat.

Each word one step  
closer to a chance  
to win the battle.

To get back to Sam.

Slowly upwards.

Sam being the  
spark to his will's inferno.

Has. To. Be. Protected.

Can't. Leave. Him.

My. Job.

Sam.

And he yells Sam's name,  
despair still lingering in it  
but also sounding like  
a battle cry

to take on every torment hell  
would throw at him.

For Sam he would always fight.  
He needs to  
feel,  
see,  
hear his brother.

Yearns for him with every fiber,  
neglecting the pain coursing through his body,

he yells for

"SAAAAMMM!"


End file.
